After a day filled with talking, laughing, reminiscing and making future plans, Evie had returned to Eversby Priory in high spirits. She was full of news to share with her husband . . . including the fact that the protagonist of Daisy’s current novel in progress had been partly inspired by him.

“I had the idea when the subject of your husband came up at a dinner party a few months ago, Evie,” Daisy had explained, dabbing at a tiny stain left by a strawberry that had fallen onto her bodice. “Someone remarked that Kingston was still the handsomest man in England, and how unfair it was that he never ages. And Lillian said he must be a vampire, and everyone laughed. It started me thinking about that old novel The Vampyre, published about fifty years ago. I decided to write something similar, only a romantic version.”

Lillian had shaken her head at the notion. “I told Daisy no one would want to read about a vampire lover. Blood . . . teeth . . .” She grimaced and shivered.

“He enslaves women with his charismatic power,” Daisy protested. “He’s also a rich, handsome duke—just like Evie’s husband.”

Annabelle spoke then, her blue eyes twinkling. “In light of all that, one could forgive a bad habit or two.”

Lillian gave her a skeptical glance. “Annabelle, could you really overlook a husband who went around sucking the life out of people?”

After pondering the question, Annabelle asked Daisy, “How rich is he?” She ducked with a smothered laugh as Lillian pelted her with a biscuit.

Laughing at her friends’ antics, Evie had asked Daisy, “What’s the title?”

“The Duke’s Deadly Embrace.”

“I suggested ‘The Duke Was a Pain in the Neck,” Lillian had said, “but Daisy thought it lacked romance.”

When Evie had arrived back at the Ravenels’ estate, she had found her oldest daughter waiting for her, eager to relate the events of the morning.

“Other than Mr. Ravenel,” Phoebe had reassured her, “no one else was hurt. Justin was a bit shaken, but perfectly fine.”

“And your father?”

“He was as cool as a cucumber about the whole thing, of course. He spent the afternoon playing billiards with the other gentlemen, and later went up to your room for a rest. But Mama, when he and I walked back to the house this morning, he said some very disagreeable things about Edward Larson—and about Henry!”

“Oh, dear.” Evie had listened sympathetically to her daughter’s account of the conversation and soothed her with a promise to speak to Sebastian and try to soften his views on Edward Larson.

Now Evie hurried upstairs in search of her husband as fast as possible without giving the appearance of haste. She reached their suite, a spacious and well-appointed bedroom with an attached dressing room and a tiny antechamber converted into a lavatory.

Upon entering the main room, Evie discovered her husband lounging in a large, old-fashioned slipper tub. Since the lavatory was too small to allow for a tub, a portable one had to be carried in by footmen and laboriously filled with large cans of hot water brought by housemaids.

Sebastian leaned back with one long leg propped at the far end of the tub, a crystal glass of brandy clasped negligently in one hand. His once tawny amber hair was handsomely silvered at the sides and temples. The daily ritual of a morning swim had kept him fit and limber, his skin glowing as if he existed in perpetual summer. He might have been Apollo lazing on Olympus: a decadent golden sun god utterly lacking in modesty.

His lazy voice meandered through the veil of aromatic steam. “Ah, there you are, pet. Did you enjoy your outing?”

Evie smiled as she went to him. “I did.” She knelt beside the tub so that their faces were level. “F-from what I’ve heard, it wasn’t as eventful as yours.” Since childhood, she had spoken with a stammer, which had lessened over the years but still attached itself to a syllable here or here.

His gaze caressed her face, while a wet forefinger traced a spray of freckles on her upper chest. “You heard about the incident in the paddock.”

“And how you climbed in after Justin.”

“I wasn’t in a moment’s danger. Ravenel was the one who held off a belligerent bull while I fetched the boy.”

Evie closed her eyes briefly at the thought of it and reached for the crystal glass in his hand. She downed what little was left and set the glass on the floor. “You suffered no injuries?”

Two long, wet fingers hooked the top of her neckline and tugged her closer to the side of the bathtub. Sebastian’s eyes were pale, lucent blue, sparkling like winter starlight. “I may have enough of a sprain to require your services.”

A smile curved her lips. “What services?”

“I need a bath maid.” Catching one of her hands, he drew it down into the water. “For my hard-to-reach places.”

Evie resisted with a throaty chuckle, tugging at her imprisoned wrist. “You can reach that by yourself.”

“My sweet,” he said, nuzzling into her neck, “I married you so I wouldn’t have to do it myself. Now . . . tell me where you think my sprain is.”

“Sebastian,” she said, trying to sound severe as his wet hands roved over her bodice, “you’re going to r-ruin my dress.”

“Unless you remove it.” He gave her an expectant glance.

Smiling wryly, Evie pulled away and stood to comply. He had always loved to have her undress for him, especially when the clothing was intricate with many fastenings. Her pink muslin summer dress had been topped with a matching vest fastened all down the front with pearl buttons . . . exactly the style of garment he fancied watching her remove.

“Tell me about the picnic,” her husband said, sliding a bit lower in the water, his gaze moving over her intently.

“It was lovely. We were brought out in wagonettes to a green hill. The footmen spread cloths on the ground and set out picnic hampers and pails of ice . . . and then we were left alone to feast and talk as much we pleased.” Evie worked diligently on the buttons, finding some of them difficult to unfasten. “Daisy told us about her latest trip to New York, and—you’ll never guess—she’s modeling a character in a gothic novel after you. A v-vampire!”

“Hmm. I’m not sure I like the idea of being a creature in a gothic novel. What exactly does he do?”

“He’s a handsome, elegant fiend who bites his wife’s neck every night.”

His brow cleared. “Oh, that’s all right, then.”

“But he never drinks enough of her blood to kill her,” Evie continued.

“I see. He keeps her conveniently on tap.”

“Yes, but he loves her. You make her sound like a cask with a spigot. It’s not as if he wants to do it, but he—did you just ask something?”

“I asked if you can undress any faster.”

Evie huffed with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “No, I can’t. There are too many b-buttons, and they’re very small.”

“What a pity. Because in thirty seconds, I’m going to rip away whatever clothing you have left.”

Evie knew full well not to take the threat lightly—he’d done it before, on more than one occasion. “Sebastian, no. I like this dress.”

Her husband’s eyes glinted with devilish humor as he watched her increasingly frantic efforts. “No dress is as beautiful as your naked skin. All those sweet freckles scattered over you, like a thousand tiny angel kisses . . . you have twenty seconds left, by the way.”

“You don’t even h-have a clock,” she complained.

“I’m counting by heartbeats. You’d better hurry, love.”

Evie glanced anxiously down at the row of pearl buttons, which seemed to have multiplied. With a defeated sigh, she dropped her arms to her sides. “Just go on and rip it off,” she mumbled.

She heard his silky laugh, and a sluice of water. He stood with streams runneling over the sleek, muscled contours of his body, and Evie gasped as she was pulled into a wet, steaming embrace.

His amused voice curled inside the sensitive shell of her ear. “My poor little put-upon wife. Let me help you. As you may recall, I have a way with buttons . . .”

Later, as Evie lay beside him, deeply relaxed and still tingling in the aftermath of pleasure, she said drowsily, “Phoebe told me about your conversation during the walk back to the house.”

Sebastian was slow to reply, his lips and hands still drifting over her gently. “What did she say?”

“She was unhappy about your opinion of Edward Larson.”

“No more unhappy than I, when I learned he’d broached the subject of marriage with her. Did you know about that?”

“I thought he might have. I wasn’t certain.”

Propping himself up on one elbow, Sebastian looked down at her with a frown. “God spare me from having to call another Larson ‘son-in-law.’”

“But you cared very much for Henry,” Evie said, surprised by the comment.

“Like a son,” he agreed. “However, that never blinded me to the fact that he was far from Phoebe’s ideal partner. There was no balance between them. His force of will never came close to matching hers. To Henry, Phoebe was as much a mother as a wife. I only consented to the match because Phoebe was too bullheaded to consider anyone else. For reasons I still don’t fully understand, she would have Henry or no one.”

Evie played with the light mat of his chest hair. “Whatever Henry’s faults, Phoebe always knew he belonged to her alone. That was worth any sacrifice. She wanted a man whose capacity for love was unqualified.”

“Does she claim to find the same capacity in that spineless prig Larson?”

“I don’t believe so. But her purposes for marriage are different this time.”

“Whatever her purposes, I won’t have my grandsons raised by an invertebrate.’

“Sebastian,” she chided softly, although her lips quivered with amusement.

“I mean for her to partner with Weston Ravenel. A healthy young buck with sharp wits and a full supply of manly vigor. He’ll do her much good.”

“Let’s allow Phoebe to decide if she wants him,” Evie suggested.

“She had better decide soon, or Westcliff will snap him up for one of his daughters.”

This was a side of Sebastian—high-handed to the verge of being autocratic—that almost inevitably developed in men of vast wealth and power. Evie had always been careful to curb such tendencies in her husband, occasionally reminding him that he was, after, a mere mortal who had to respect other people’s rights to make their own decisions. He would counter with something like, “Not when they’re obviously wrong,” and she would reply, “Even then,” and eventually he would relent after making a great many caustic observations about the idiocy of people who dared to disagree with him. The fact that he was so often right made Evie’s position difficult, but still, she never backed down.